


Vietnam Itself, Vietnam Herself

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Drabble, Ficlet, Gen, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), Vietnam, ho chi minh city
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A short, drabble (1000 word-ish) piece about APH Vietnam, named, in this work, Phuong Nguyen.





	Vietnam Itself, Vietnam Herself

Phuong Nguyen was not particularly one to stand out among the packed marketplace crowds. Like most female shop keepers there, she either stood or sat in her stall, selling her wares, her thick rose lips spitting out, rather quickly and loudly, whatever words customers or passersby needed to hear. But sometimes, instead of talking, she listened.

"Yes, that is a fair price for such a fish. I will not go any lower!" Said one voice across from her stall, refuting a haggler's attempts at a lower price for the fresh catch of the day. "It is not dirty, it was only caught a half hour ago." A blatant lie, on the seller's part, but in this business, when every bit of money counted – when every bit of money went towards feeding a family, keeping up a house, putting clothes on the back of another – who could refrain from letting the truth steal away for a time?

Phuong said nothing, only observing the exchange while hosting her own, dropping the change into her current customer's outstretched hand. Her glossy, dark eyes, like black moons, picked up on every slight movement. She knew these people, though they didn't know her. She knew their names, their mannerisms, their thoughts, their actions. She knew them because she was them. She was Vietnam itself; just as the people made up the nation, she made up the people.

Perhaps, then, that is why she chose such a non-intimate and yet close environment for her human work. She wanted to see the people she loved and protected fiercely without them knowing or seeing her too well. She had sacrificed for these people. She had seen their struggles. She had fallen with them, only to rise up again; inspired by her people's resilience, she had given herself the name Phuong, meaning phoenix. Her hands pushed her straw hat back into place as it began to fall from her head as she bowed to another appreciative, satisfied customer. _I cannot afford to get any more tan. Soon enough I'll be blending in with the trees. I'll have turned into wood..._ she thought to herself as she tilted her hat atop her thin hair, banishing the sun from her face. Turning her back to the continuing haggling in the parallel stall, Phuong grabbed a bit of sandpaper from the table before her and began to pick up where she left off, sanding down the long wooden paddle in front of her. Her signature item. Her sidekick, even.

Statues and images of Mary and Jesus hung around her shop, keeping vigilant watch over the scuffled exchange. "No lower! I have a family to feed!" The customer argued that he, too, had a family in need of food – one with five children and a sickly grandmother.

This is how it was in the dirty markets of Ho Chi Minh City, where children and dogs alike ran with fervor through the alleys, mothers and aunts chasing after them, fathers and husbands and uncles bringing in the day's wares to sell. Flies and mosquitoes hummed with the rushing of the Mekong River. The heavy, humid air clung to everyone's bodies, enveloping them in a permanent muggy embrace. Phuong continued to sand down her paddle, the damned aging thing, paying no mind when bits of wood began to chip off of it or give her a splinter. She was tough, like the core of the paddle itself, and pushed any distractions aside, as the waves parted at the paddle's force through them. Yet she could not put the conversation across from her out of her mind, the haggling beginning to sound more akin to pleading. 

She had never had a family to feed. She couldn't. She wasn't human; unable to bear children, unable to not outlive any potential relations, a nation with the heart of a dragon. But her people were her family, in some strange way that she still could not define, despite thinking about it quite often and facing the fact throughout her entire existence.

Spinning on her heel, her green ao dai waving in the sudden whisk of her legs, Phuong marched over to the opposing stall, drawing coins from her pocket and dropping them into the seller's hand. "Let him have it. I'll pay for it," she bluntly spoke. She didn't care how much money she was giving away, didn't care about the value of her coins, so long as they covered the total. Not that she needed the money. She didn't have to eat, sleep, drink. She didn't need a job or a home. All she had to do was live. That was all she could do.

The customer, in awe at the generosity and sudden saving grace – let alone by a woman – widened his eyes, quickly retreating into a bow. "Thank you, thank you, than-"

"Don't worry about it," she dismissed him with a gentle nobility. "I've made enough money today." Another small white market lie. It couldn't be helped.

Phuong again pivoted and breezed over to her opposite stall, closing it up until its guaranteed reopening the following morning, after a traditional sweetened iced coffee breakfast. She had more wares to sell – fruits and handcrafts among them – but enough for the day was enough for the day. She didn't need any more money. She didn't need any money at all. 

Grabbing her net bag, holding a few fruits and a notepad, Phuong made her way through the din and business of the fast-paced, thriving market, breathing with the motions of its patrons and visitors. She felt the weight of the bag slide against her shoulder as she reached behind her and pulled her straight, raven hair into a ponytail. Her ao dai swished around her ankles as she walked between the cracks made by the flow of market life. She kept her shoulders straight and her back slightly slouched, exhausted from being up since nearly sunrise to follow her daily selling routine. She maintained her toughness and her skill, as she kept a quiet yet bold demeanor. Vietnam itself – herself – was no different than the average Vietnamese themselves. She did not stand out among the crowd. 


End file.
